The O'Roarke Affair, page 6
"You always knew he was an agent?" Malcolm asked.
"I may not be an agent myself, but I am reasonably astute, Mr. Rannoch. I had an idea of the sort of missions he went on. They created secrecy, naturally. Which isn't the best thing in a marriage. Though in our case, I'd say we were already apart. I never really wanted to know his secrets. That might have meant needing to reveal mine, and I can't imagine anything more appalling. I married to obtain my freedom, not to lose it." She took a sip of sherry. "I thought he'd give it up when he came into the title. His work outside of diplomatic channels. But he didn't. And I could see he didn't want to."
"So you weren't entirely unattuned to his thoughts and feelings," Mélanie said.
"Not entirely." The duchess looked into the pale gold depths of her glass. "I was glad he had something of his own. It left me free to pursue my own life. Where our lives touched, we could assist each other. Mostly we didn't get in each other's way. There are worse partnerships."
Malcolm moved to a chair beside Mélanie. "Had he seemed concerned about anything lately?"
"Not particularly. If anything, he had that air of suppressed excitement he seemed to get when there was a mission afoot. I half expected him to tell me he was going abroad again. A bit too schoolboyish at his age, I sometimes thought, but then I can certainly understand the impulse to chase after one's youth. One doesn't risk one's life dyeing one's hair or ordering a new gown, though."
"Did you think he was risking his life?" Mélanie asked.
"No, or I'd have—well, I don't know what I'd have done. Tony never interfered with me. I'd have been reneging on the bargain if I'd tried to interfere with him." The duchess took another sip of sherry. "If you want to know more about whatever he was involved in, it's possible his mistress knew more."
"Would you happen to know the lady's name?" Malcolm asked.
"Tony and I respected each other's freedom, but we weren't quite so modern we shared names. However, I did hear mention of a former opera dancer named Maria. I imagine with your skills you can find her."
A door clicked open in the hall and footfalls sounded on marble. "The carriage." The duchess swallowed the last of her sherry. "It seems I can't delay facing my family any longer."
CHAPTER 9
December 1798
France
Prince Talleyrand regarded Raoul across the inn parlor St. Ives and Mademoiselle Chat Gris had conducted him to. "Sit down, O'Roarke. And perhaps you'd be good enough to pour us both some calvados." The prince gestured to a decanter on the table. "My foot is a bit troublesome."
Raoul poured two glasses of calvados and handed one to the prince.
Talleyrand inclined his head in thanks. "You look well. I'd heard—"
"Yes, I was wounded." Raoul dropped into a chair at the opposite end of the table. "I had time to recover before I got out of Ireland. I still move a bit slowly, but I'll mend." Physically, at least. He was never going to be the man he'd been before the Uprising.
"Arabella was worried."
"I'm still rather stunned by the lengths Arabella went to." Raoul took a sip of calvados. Velvet on the tongue. Talleyrand must have brought it with him. It would be a rare inn cellar that boasted something so supple. "I don't suppose you know how she got Alistair to help? Or that you'll tell me if you do."
Talleyrand's blue eyes glinted in the candlelight. "You're right, I probably wouldn't tell you. But if I did know, I wouldn't try to get you to tell me what you knew of the matter."
"Which is precisely nothing."
Talleyrand smiled. "So you say."
Raoul settled back in his chair. "I'm flattered you took an interest in me, sir."
"Don't underestimate yourself, O'Roarke. A great many people are interested in you."
"I don't have a great deal to offer just now." His fingers bit into his glass. He tossed down another sip of calvados. Quickly enough it burnt down his throat. Sometimes it took a jolt like that to remind him he was alive.
"You've been dealt a setback." Talleyrand's voice was cool as the chilled champagne he served at his parties but not without sympathy. "A serious one, I grant. But if either of us had given up at our first setback or even our second, we wouldn't have outlasted the Revolution."
Raoul's fingers tightened on the stem of his glass. "Talking of setbacks."
"We may not entirely agree on what we want to make of the world. But surely we both understand that most progress is achieved by chipping away."
"You're talking to a veteran of two failed revolutions."
"I wouldn't call France a failure, would you? That's talking like Hubert Mallinson."
Raoul took another drink of calvados. "Fair enough."
"It may not be the France you wanted, but a great deal has changed. I'd think you'd want to preserve that change."
"Very much."
Talleyrand reached for his own glass. "Things have a way of shifting. Not so very long ago I was in the United States working at a bank. At times, I wasn't sure I'd ever see my homeland again. Now I'm France's foreign minister. You may not be exiled forever."
"The thought of years of exile is not comforting." He bit back more.
Talleyrand's gaze stayed steady on his face. "I know something about what it is to be a parent to a child one can't claim openly. There are ways to keep the bonds, even with distance."
Raoul turned his glass in his hand. It was more than six months since he'd seen Malcolm. April, a quick trip before all hell broke loose in Ireland. He'd missed Speech Day, for the first time since Malcolm had started at Harrow. He had no intention of allowing his separation from his son to drag on much longer. He'd find a way back into England. It wouldn't be the first time he'd skirted authorities.
Talleyrand's gaze continued steady on his face. "Running risks is part of who you are. Though I hope you've learnt to stop short of recklessness. Meanwhile, there's plenty for you to do in France. Your friend Josephine's husband is going to be even more powerful when he returns from Egypt."
"Am I supposed to be pleased about that?"
"I'm not such a fool as to expect anything of the sort from you. It's not precisely the republic you envisioned, but Bonaparte may be what France needs to stave off a return of the Bourbons. And to give it some stability."
"Or at least to give you a stable position."
Talleyrand lifted his glass with leisurely grace and took a sip. "There's a great deal to be said for stability. I can hardly serve France without stability in my own position. Neither of us wants France to go backwards, the way men like Hubert Mallinson would like to see it do. A great deal came out of the last decade, for all the messiness. You can take pride in the role you played. And you can play a role in the next ten years."
It was what Raoul had told himself, time and time again. It was what he had counseled younger agents, tired and frustrated by the slow pace of change or disillusioned by the turns the Revolution had taken. But just now, fresh off the ruin in Ireland, he could scarcely make the case in his own mind, let alone to anyone else. "Are you asking me to work for you?"
"I have no illusions that you would. Or that I could trust you if you did. But we've been allies at times in the past. We could be so again."
That, at least, sparked curiosity. "What are you asking me to do?"
Talleyrand shifted in his chair and took a drink of calvados. "To begin with, I'd be inestimably grateful if you could keep Josephine from doing worse damage to her marriage before Bonaparte returns. For both their sakes and the sake of France. He doesn't need the distraction."
Raoul choked back a laugh. "I'll admit I'm at a point where I could use almost any distraction. But chaperon is an unlikely role for me."
"I was thinking of friend. I imagine you and Josephine could both use a friend."
"That, I won't argue with." When they'd been imprisoned in Les Carmes, expecting to go to the guillotine any day, he and Josephine de Beauharnais had said things to each other they would probably never say to another person. Some bonds were stronger than any love affair.
Talleyrand shifted in his chair. The candlelight bounced off his pristine cravat. "Julien St. Juste was there the last time I saw her. He's a danger."
Julien's mocking, inscrutable face shot into Raoul's memory. "That depends on which side he's on. Like you, he has a way of shifting. But I'm quite sure he won't turn on Josephine. In fact, she's safer with him about."
"An interesting way of putting it. And possibly true. But he's a threat to her relationship with Bonaparte."
"Josephine may not be any more faithful to Bonaparte than he is to her. But I don't think she and Julien have been lovers for some time. Partly because I think St. Juste understands the risk of harming her marriage."
"You always were an idealist, O'Roarke. And now you're being an idealist about Julien St. Juste, of all people."
"Possibly." Raoul took another drink of calvados. "And St. Ives?" he asked. "Talking of risky alliances. That surprised me. Is he one of yours?"
"St. Ives is very much his own person. And loyal to his country. We have an alliance that is mutually profitable at times. Much like the alliance you and I could have, if for different reasons."
Raoul set his glass down with precision. "You've also been known to ally yourself with Hubert Mallinson."
"It serves France's interests to ally myself with various people at various times."
"Or your interests."
"Or both," Talleyrand said in an easy voice.
"And you also have an alliance with Mademoiselle Chat Gris?"
Talleyrand smiled. "She's a very able agent."
"She was at pains to keep her name hidden."
"She has her reasons."
Raoul shifted in his chair. Easier to talk about others than about himself. "She and St. Ives are fond of each other."
"Yes. That's useful, actually. Poor St. Ives."
"Poor?"
"He's hampered by being the heir to a dukedom. He has the soul of an agent. Much like you. But unlike you, he's weighed down by family responsibilities."
Raoul's fingers tightened on his glass. "There's something to be said for family responsibilities."
Talleyrand's gaze narrowed. "Your wife is still in Ireland?"
"And will be remaining there. It would have been easier for her if I'd managed to get myself killed, but my exile will at least make her life pleasanter. My marriage was effectively over before the uprising."
"I've never been tempted by marriage," Talleyrand said. "One of the advantages, perhaps, of being compelled into the priesthood. And I can't say I'm inclined to try it now I'm not a member of the clergy. But I think you had other expectations."
Raoul took a drink of calvados. "Foolish expectations. A response to the last time my cause didn't go as I anticipated. And to my relationship with Bella. I thought I could put down roots. I should never have put Margaret in that situation. Staying out of her way is the best I can do to make it up to her. I suppose that's one consolation for my present circumstances."
"And now? Are you looking for a refuge?"
"I know better than to think I can find it in my personal life."
"Then I advise you to consider work. However disillusioned you are, there's satisfaction in putting your mind to use. And I know you can't be so disillusioned that you've lost your ideals."
Raoul twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. "You talk about ideals very freely."
"Just because I'm not driven by them doesn't mean I don't appreciate them. Or that they are entirely alien to me."
"Even I might admit that. Though it may be testament to your charm."
Talleyrand flung his head back and laughed. "Paris is an exciting place. And you've always been happy there."
"As well as profoundly sad at times."
"Josephine will be glad to see you. Like Arabella, she's been worried. She said she hadn't heard from you in a long time."
"I wanted to keep her out of it." Especially given the French involvement in the Uprising.
Talleyrand reached for his glass and frowned into it. "It would have been a mess, you know. If French support had succeeded in helping your friends in Ireland. We'd have got bogged down."
"Yes, I'm inclined to agree. That wasn't the route I wanted. I also didn't want an Ireland governed by the French. Though I'd have taken it over the current situation. It doesn't mean we couldn't have succeeded on our own."
"There's always a 'perhaps' to make one question. Folly to dwell too much on it. And even if you're going to tilt at windmills, you have to pick and choose your battles. That's Bonaparte's weakness. Thinking he can overreach. If we can't manage him, it could be a problem."
"We?" Raoul had respect for Napoleon Bonaparte, as well as concerns about where his ambitions would take him.
"One place we could be allies. You have Josephine's ear. And she has Bonaparte's. Or should, if they can keep the marriage together. Which again is why I need your help."
"My dear Talleyrand. Did you just ask me to save a marriage for the sake of politics?"
Talleyrand lifted his glass. "Can you think of a better reason? Pour us some more calvados, O'Roarke. And let's talk."
CHAPTER 10
May 1821
London
"He can't be gone." Lord St. Ives stared round the crowd in the salon at Bamford House. "He was just—"
Sylvie put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "He lived a more dangerous life than you realized."
St. Ives put his hand over her own. "You mean someone killed him. Deliberately."
"It looks that way," Malcolm said. They had reached Bamford House to find Sylvie had just broken the news to St. Ives. They were all in a high-ceilinged salon hung with gold silk worked with the Bamford arms—Sylvie and St. Ives, Malcolm and Mélanie, Kitty and Julien, and the duchess. "Whatever was behind the explosion, the duke was shot before the fire started," Malcolm added.
Disbelief clouded St. Ives's gaze. He was taller and more heavily built than his father had been, and though he had his father's blue eyes, they lacked the keen irony Malcolm remembered in the duke. "But who—"
"We don't know yet," Malcolm said. "We know very little. Did your father mention any enemies?"
St. Ives ran a hand over his sandy hair, which always looked rumpled at the best of times. "He was a diplomat. He decided things in council chambers."
"He was also a spy," Sylvie said.
St. Ives swung his head round to stare at his wife.
"You can't have been blind to it," Sylvie said.
"But he never—"
"Told us? Of course not. What spy tells their family? Well, the Rannochs are an exception. And the Mallinsons." She looked from Malcolm and Mélanie to Julien and Kitty. "And the Davenports. But rare exceptions. The hints were all there. The mysterious missions he went on to negotiate in secret. When he was gone for weeks at a time without anyone knowing where?"
"They were missions," St. Ives insisted.
"They were indeed. Spy missions." Sylvie glanced at her mother-in-law. "Mama Duchess knew."
"I had my suspicions." The duchess had been sitting by quietly, hands tightly clasped in her lap.
"Why the devil didn't you say anything?" St. Ives demanded of his mother.
"It was hardly the sort of thing one shares, my dear. "
St. Ives stared at his mother for a moment, then turned to his wife. "Why on earth were you with Father tonight?"
"I wasn't precisely with him," Sylvie said. "I followed him."
St. Ives's gaze shot over his wife's face as though she were a stranger. Which perhaps in many ways she was. "Why?"
Sylvie folded her arms over the stained bodice of the blue gown she was still wearing. "I wanted to know what he was doing."
"But—"
The door burst open. Rosalind Azevado, the Bamfords' youngest daughter, raced into the salon. "Is it true? Was Papa killed?"
"I'm very much afraid so, Rosy." The duchess got to her feet and went to her daughter's side.
Rosalind stared at her mother for a moment. Tall and slender, with smooth pale gold hair, she looked much as her mother might have when she'd married the future Duke of Bamford. At the duchess's musicale last March, Malcom had caught a glimpse of Rosalind's nerves of steel and the lengths to which she was willing to go in political intrigue. She squeezed her mother's hands, but then her gaze shot round the company. "He was at the docks?"
"He was on a ship," Malcolm said.
"What on earth was he doing there?" Rosalind looked at her mother. "I thought you were dining with the Marchmains."
"We were. Your father never arrived."
"Was he on one of his missions?" Rosalind asked Sylvie.
"I'm not sure. I was trying to find out. I thought you might know."
St. Ives took a step towards his sister. "You knew Father was an agent?"
Rosalind glanced over her shoulder at her brother. "Of course. I've known for years. But I never thought—"
"None of us did," Sylvie said.
"How on earth did you know?" St. Ives demanded of Rosalind.
"It was obvious. Well, if one knew what to look for."
"And you went through his papers," Sylvie said.
"What?" St. Ives looked from his wife to his sister.
"That's a despicable lie," Rosalind said.
"Don't be modest, Rosy," Sylvie said. "You're quite amazing for someone untrained."
"What is going on here?" St. Ives demanded.
Julien, who had been sitting quietly on a settee beside Kitty, got to his feet and went to St. Ives's side. Julien had been gone from Britain so long, Malcolm forgot that he had known both Sylvie and St. Ives since babyhood. Before Malcolm was even born.
Julien put a hand on St. Ives's arm. "Sometimes the people we're closest to can surprise us the most."
Sylvie turned to her husband. "We live with secrets. You must know it."
"Not those sorts of secrets."
"Difficult to parse the types, St. Ives." Sylvie stared at her husband for a moment. "Oh, lord, I suppose I'm going to have to get used to calling you Bamford."
